


Can I Ruffle Your Hair?

by ozymandias314



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: F/M, Hair, Hair Kink, Hair-pulling, Masturbation, Sexual Frustration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 05:03:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1886124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozymandias314/pseuds/ozymandias314
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David Tennant does not have a fetish for having his hair ruffled. He refuses. Unfortunately, his prick does not agree. </p><p>Loosely based on this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LnYBuO8OqFg</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can I Ruffle Your Hair?

David was quite glad he was an actor.

The show must go on, as they say. And although he was currently aroused enough to have a hard time remembering his address, his name, or any of the Doctor’s lines, he was still together enough to continue the show. He even made a joke about his state of arousal!

The girl-- Frankie-- she had been cute, she had looked a little like that Willow girl from the American TV show with vampires, and it was nice to get to do something for a fan (although what the bloody hell was hair-ruffling?). He had not quite thought this would lead him to have an erection on national television.

He felt like a teenager in maths class. He wished he had a textbook to hold over his lap, although he supposed a desk worked well enough. He thought of the old joke-- harder than calculus-- and groaned to himself. It was suddenly not funny. It was suddenly his life. 

David willed himself not to blush and willed his cock to go down. His cheeks cooperated. His penis did not. In fact, with a willfulness it hadn't shown since puberty, it got harder.

Things. They had happened. Frankie had sat down, people were saying things, David's mouth was saying things, running on autopilot as his brain concentrated on "hands" and "horny" and "fuck" and again and again and again "hair."

The lights on the camera blinked, the guy said "and it's commercial break." David muttered something about having to go to the bathroom, ran, locked himself in the room, unbuttoned his trousers, and in three jerks of his aching prick came all over his hand. 

Well, he thought to himself as he washed off. That was certainly an experience. And with luck he would never have to think of it again.

\--

That night, David was watching some of his favorite porn. He liked the amateur stuff, with girls really enjoying themselves. He normally didn’t jerk off twice in a day-- he normally didn’t jerk off twice in a week, his libido was very cooperative and didn’t require much of him. But for some reason which he was carefully not thinking about it he felt himself craving it. 

No, he thought. There was a perfectly good girl getting fucked by an absurdly large cock on the TV screen. Her tits were bouncing with every thrust and she was having unfaked orgasms, or at least very well-faked. They were going to go into cowgirl soon and he was going to see her excellent, jiggling arse. Think about the girl. Don’t think about Frankie, don’t think about her hands, don’t think about the shivers of pleasure down his spine as she ran a hand through his hair, the way her fingers pulled his hair slightly and released it, the--

Fuck. He just came. 

\--

This was absurd. He was an internationally famous and desired star of stage and screen. He’d acted in Shakespeare, for Christ’s sake! He’d given so many people his autograph that he was afraid he was going to suffer a repetitive stress injury! He shouldn’t be fascinated by some girl who, let us be clear, was not even that cute. It was not his fault that her hands were magic, that they made him feel things he had never felt before, that...

“David,” the director said, an expression of frustration on his face. “I realize it’s late, but you’re going to have to pay attention if we want to finish shooting the scene tonight.”

“What?” David said. “Right. Scenes. Shooting. Yes, very good.” He composed himself. Bloody hell, those hands, though. Her face.

When he got home, he decided to watch the clip. After all, he would soon figure out that it was just an odd moment in his perfectly normal non-hair-fetishizing life, that it was really no big deal, nothing to worry about.

By the end of the video, he was hard. His lips thin, he rewatched the video. Exposure therapy, that was the thing. Watch it again and again without any arousing stimulus, and soon enough the arousal would stop. 

The urge to touch his dick (just once, just for a second, just to take the edge off) grew. David sat on his hands. Nope, this girl was not going to get the better of him. He briefly thought about investing in handcuffs, then realized sadly that would probably only result in a more embarrassing fetish. 

Maybe… one more time. Precome was already beginning to leak out of the head of his prick. Surely one more time and this would stop being so fucking hot.

Without quite noticing, David unzipped his trousers, took his penis in his hand, and began to masturbate, rubbing his thumb over the slit to spread the precome. His breathing grew heavier. His eyes rolled back into his head. He bit his lip, hard, and with a cry came. All over his really good dress trousers, too. 

Who was he even fucking kidding. 

\--

It was some shitty party, for somebody’s movie or some charity or something; David hadn’t been paying a whole lot of attention. It was his goal to get as drunk as possible, as quickly as possible, on someone else’s dime, in the vain hope that this would lead him to stop being haunted by bloody hair-ruffling.

Hair-ruffling. This had to be a fucking joke. 

The girl had red hair and glasses. That was what caught his attention.

It was easy enough to get her into bed. She was drunk, and he was the famous David Tennant. All he had to do was smile, be charming, and watch her throw herself at him.

They made out in the cab. Some paparazzo was going to make a lot of money on those photographs, he figured. The Doctor Caught With Random Redhead. Although she was quite pretty, she didn’t do much for him; she kissed him and sat on his lap and he ran his hands up her sides, but he still remained soft. However, when she put her hand on his neck, painfully close to his hairline, to tilt his head up, his cock instantly spung to attention. Typical. 

They went up to the bedroom of her house, dropping articles of clothing along the way; it was probably supposed to be sexy, but all it made him think of was how much bother it would be to pick them up in the morning. She moaned theatrically as he kissed her and reached a hand up to her breasts. He tried not to roll his eyes. 

David was very, very drunk. That was his excuse. “Could you ruffle my hair?”

Red Hair was startled. “What like… touch it?”

“Yeah.” He was out of breath, as if he’d been jogging. 

“I guess.” She touched it gingerly, trying to hide her annoyance but not succeeding. 

For a moment he thought-- maybe-- this is it. But it was wrong, wrong, all wrong. It felt good, was the problem: he felt an echo of the shiver down his spine, the buzz in his scalp, the peace deep in his belly. But it was just a taste when he wanted the banquet. She moved as if she didn’t know what she was doing, awkward, unsure, uneven; she didn’t build up a rhythm; she thought it was weird, and that ruined it. Frankie had given it her all. 

Fuck it. He pulled her down to the bed and kissed her; her hand left his head and clutched the sheets. It was too late to stop now, and at least he could pretend. 

They fucked. Her pussy was hot and wet and acceptably tight, and the room was dark enough that he could pretend it was Frankie. It was better than his hand, anyway. He’d stopped caring about it long ago, when he took the girl home or asked her to ruffle his hair or when he saw the glasses and heard her giggle. Maybe when he’d started drinking. Maybe when Frankie had asked him in the first place. 

“You called me Frankie when you came.”

“Did I,” David said, drifting off to a drunken sleep. 

\--

When David found himself Googling “hair ruffling porn,” he decided that this had gone too far. 

It took three gift baskets, a dozen excruciatingly embarrassing conversations with people who wanted to know if he was looking for “the hair girl,” an awkward conversation with the wrong Frances Waters who was sixty, a lifelong Doctor Who fan, and very happy that the Doctor was paying house calls, and a truly terrifying cab ride through the middle of London, but he was at her doorstep. 

When she opened the door, David was surprised to discover she looked the same. She had played such a major role in his masturbatory fantasies that she seemed almost like a fairy. It was like seeing Santa Claus on your doorstep, sleepy-eyed and wearing pajamas and an I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES shirt. 

“Hi,” he said. “Uh. The bloody hair-ruffling thing. I… I can’t stop thinking about it. Could you do it again?”

She didn’t respond, an expression of shock on her face. Fuck. Bloody shit hell fuck what was he going to do he had gone to her like a creepy stalker and now he was going to have no chance of getting his hair ruffled, none whatsoever, he would have to go to prostitutes like Hugh Grant--

“Excuse me,” she said. The door closed. He distinctly heard a high-pitched squeal. The door opened. She looked more composed. “I would love to ruffle your hair as much as you like,” she said with as much dignity as she could. “Would you like to come in?”

“OK,” David said, entering the hallway. There was a map of Narnia on the wall, next to a quite good drawing of himself. “...I uh. I would be happy to take you on a very elaborate date and learn all about your fascinating hobbies and your--” a tabby wound itself around his legs “--cats and so on, but can we please do the hair-ruffling thing first because I have been thinking about that uh. Constantly.”

“You’re hard,” she said.

“I’m about to get my hair ruffled.”

“I made David Tennant hard,” she said in a tone of disbelief.

“Yes. Rather a lot actually.” He pulled at his tie. “I have been jerking off thinking about you for the past month.”

She bit her lip as if she were repressing another squeal. “So, uh, how should we do this?”

David had been thinking about it a lot. “Maybe I should kneel?” he said. “Then I’d be right at hands height.”

“Sounds good,” she said. 

He got down on his knees before her. She reached out.

The first touch was electric, just a sense of-- of rightness, the craving he’d had for a month finally met. He pushed his head closer to her hand, yearning for more touch. She ran her fingers along his scalp, digging in a little, then moving it out along the strands, almost pulling but not quite. He purred. 

“You look great on your knees,” she said, her voice rough with arousal.

David bit his lip, looking up into her eyes. She stroked his hair again, gently, moving it back into place. Then she grabbed a handful and yanked. David’s eyes shut and his back arched. It hurt, and he didn't like that it hurt, but-- he liked that he didn't like that it hurt. The sharpness of it cut through the fog of arousal, was undeniably real, and made his dick stiffen even more in his trousers. She released, stroked, grabbed it again, pulled his head to the side. He moaned. 

Her hand returned to the place where she pulled. She scratched him gently and without pain, soothing the echoes of pain in the scalp. David bit his lip. It was difficult to think, to not let himself wash on waves of sensation, and he was becoming increasingly unsure why he was even making the effort. His world reduced to two things: the hand, gently stroking through his hair; and his prick, hard in his trousers. 

Her hand twisted in his hair, suddenly, and he groaned. The movement jerked him forward, rubbing his prick against his thigh and his shoe. 

"Can I?" he said, and she said, "Yes."

His hands fumbled at his zip and he cursed the impossibility of trousers. Then it released and a blast of cold air hit his prick and it felt so good. He thrust himself against the carpet-- it hurt, and not in the good way-- then against her foot. It was soft and warm and so, so good, and her hand stroked in circles around his head in time with his thrusts. One, two, three, and he was coming over her foot and her pajamas and his trousers, load after load, the come shooting in jets out of his cock, his orgasm just from touching her foot more intense than any he had had in mouth or cunt or hand. 

"You're so beautiful," she said. 

He looked up at her and smiled goofily, the warmth of afterglow making everything in the world a little brighter. "Thank you."

"I got to see David Tennant come," she said, her smile widening. 

"Yeah," he said. He hugged her leg. It was, he concluded, the most perfect leg in the entire world. 

She bent down and kissed his forehead, then ran her hand through his hair again. Impossibly, his dick, still dripping with come, half-hardened.

"Bedroom?" she asked.

"Bedroom sounds good."

\--

They didn't go directly to the bedroom-- they stopped off in the bathroom, which had a TARDIS nightlight, to clean off her foot and his prick- but soon enough they were in her bed, her on top, holding herself up on her hands as she kissed him. 

"Trousers are stupid," David announced, kicking his away. It was a bit of a delicate act, but she moved out of the way a bit to let him wiggle. 

"They are," she agreed, pulling off her own. "Also shirts."

"That is very true," David said, and they were naked. 

She was beautiful. Her small breasts, perfectly formed. The triangle of her nose. The curve of her ass (he slid his hands down her back to cup it). Her red hair, her glasses, her laugh. Her smile, big and awkward and unashamed. 

"This is a dream," Frankie announced. "Some kind of wet dream. I do not actually have David Tennant in my bed, I did not just watch him come--"

David pinched her.

"Ow!" She pinched him back.

"Not my kink," David said. "My kink is. Erm. Pretty much just the hair thing." 

She laughed.

"I was so vanilla before I met you," he said.

"You're still vanilla," she said. "You should see my collection of mpreg porn."

David opened his mouth to ask what an mpreg was, but then thought better of it. He might be horrified, or might acquire a new kink, or (worst of all) both. Besides, she was taking his open mouth as an opportunity to kiss him, and he was not going to object to that state of affairs.

Her skin was warm against his. He kissed down her jawline and began to kiss and suck at her neck. David bit her, and she moaned in appreciation. Her cunt ground against his cock so he could feel her slick wetness. It reassured him that he was not the only one being driven mad. She might have forcibly hijacked his sexuality via headrub, but he was still the Doctor, and she'd probably masturbated to him fucking John Barrowman for years. It was, in a way, equal. He reached up his hands to stroke her breasts.

She groaned. "They're very sensitive."

"I can tell."

They rolled over. His mouth found her breast again, licking circles around the erect nipple, nibbling and sucking affectionately. He reached between her thin legs and cupped her pussy.

"If I'd known I'd be fucking you today," she said, "I would have shaved."

David was going to say something like "don't worry, I like it" but that would have involved moving his mouth away from her delicious breast, so instead he just hoped that his fingers slipping into her vagina carried the message for him.

She rested her hand on his head affectionately. He didn't have the strength to be upset at the surge of pleasure even that gentle movement-- not even moving her hand!-- sent through him. She rolled up her hips, seeking his fingers. He curled them inward, stroking her g-spot rhythmically. Her hand tensed slightly, but did not move.

Eventually he pulled his lips away from her breast. She moaned in protest. Unable to resist the urge to press kisses down the curve of her stomach, he settled himself between her legs. Her pussy was small and rose-colored, and her juices had begun to spread down her glistening thighs. David parted it lips with one finger, then found what he was searching for and pressed a kiss directly on her clit. She froze. 

David found his rhythm. He liked eating pussy: it was like making out with a vulva. Very messy making out, the kind with a lot of tongue and where you got saliva all over your face. The smell of her, the taste, the way he could read her arousal in the tensions of the muscles of her pelvis and thighs. Her hand found its accustomed place in his head, pushing him to eat her out with more pressure. He moaned into her pussy. His dick ground against the bedspread, scrabbling for purchase, for more pressure, chasing the waves of arousal. He felt each finger individually, like lines of fire, and the strength of her palm, controlling him. It was getting hard to breathe, but he didn't care. He slipped two fingers into her pussy and began to scissor her.

Then she clenched. It was a different kind of pain, her hand not pulling but pushing strongly into his head, each of her fingers squeezing his scalp, and it was mirrored in the way her thighs wrapped around his ears and the way her vagina almost seemed to be pushing his fingers out. She moaned incoherent words-- "fuck" and "please" and "oh God" and "yes" and "David"-- which seemed to come from very far away. 

Then her hand relaxed and moved away. "If you don't fuck me right now," she said, her voice warm and contented, "I swear I am going to murder you." 

"Condoms?" David asked.

"In the nightstand." 

She watched him, idly playing with her clit with one hand and her nipple with the other, as he grabbed a condom and unrolled it onto his penis. He positioned himself on top of her and sunk in. His eyes rolled back into his head. It felt-- he thought, absurdly-- like sinking your foot into a pair of socks just out of the dryer. The initial resistance, giving way to a gentle opening. The softness. The warmth. When he was fully inside, he paused there for a moment, just to feel her, then slowly began to thrust, gently and evenly. 

Her hand reached up to ruffle his hair. He groaned.

Her vagina squeezed him, almost experimentally, once, twice. Then she found a rhythm with her Kegels that matched exactly how she stroked his hair, each pet matched perfectly with a squeeze. "You're unfair," David said.

She laughed. "You love it."

He drove himself into her more deeply, making her moan and disrupting her rhythm.

"Who's unfair now?" she said.

David was sure he would have a witty comeback if he were not losing the capacity for independent speech. He did manage something along the lines of "oh god, fuck, I-- I-- Frankie," which was a marvel of coherency given the circumstances.

Frankie was gentle, this time, without the brutality of earlier. She did not hurt, she just stroked, not even scratching his scalp. Much more like the first time she had stroked him-- and that memory sent a twinge through him-- her hand tousling and mussing his hair, sending waves of relaxation through his neck and shoulders that met the waves of pleasure coming up from his dick. 

Then she grabbed a handful of his hair, near the back, and pulled, and he came deep inside her with a shout. 

"You," he said, once he had calmed down enough to say words, "are great."

She smiled, and reached up a hand to ruffle his hair.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even watch Doctor Who. LOOK AT MY LIFE, LOOK AT MY CHOICES
> 
> The fangirl character in this porn is entirely made up. I do not know anything about the actual Hair Ruffling Girl, her response to a sexually frustrated David Tennant appearing on her doorstep, or her porn collection. If she comes across this (God forbid), I hope she takes it in the flattering and non-creepy spirit in which it is meant.


End file.
